I--"
"I done my part. I've tried as much as you to make myself fit in out
here. I--I just ain't your kind, Mrs. Loeb. Yours and--Etta's. I--I
can't be saving and economical when I see there's plenty to spend. I--I
was raised with my brother down in Shefsky's theater, where nobody cares
about monogramed guest towels and about getting up before noon if they
don't want to. The evenings here kill me! Kill me! I hate pinochle! I
gotta have life, Mrs. Loeb. I hate Kaffee Klatsches with a lot of--I--I
tell you I got different blood in my veins, Mrs. Loeb, I--"
"No, no, Sadie Mosher Loeb, that kind of talk don't go. You got just the
same _shabbos_ like us. Saturday is your--"
"Yes, yes, I'm in the right church, all right, Mrs. Loeb, but I'm in
the wrong pew. Mrs. Loeb, please can't you understand I'm in the
wrong pew!"
And all her carefully confined curls, springing their pins, she fell
forward a shivering mass.
In that surcharged moment and brisky exuding a wintry out-of-doors, Mr.
Herman Loeb entered and stood for a moment in the open doorway, in the
act of removing his greatcoat.
"Herman, my son! Oh, my son!"
"What's wrong, ma? Sadie!"
"It's come, Herman, like I always predicted to Etta it would.
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